


hooked like a junkie

by miracleboysatori



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunk Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Only Because They're Drunk, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 18:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19408870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miracleboysatori/pseuds/miracleboysatori
Summary: Plopping back down on the couch, Satori fills Wakatoshi’s glass again, “So, any news from the exciting world of accounting?”“No,” Wakatoshi bluntly answers, staring unblinkingly at Satori.Satori’s running out of potential small talk to keep him focused anywhere besides Wakatoshi’s slightly unbuttoned dress shirt. And why did he have to roll up his sleeves? It’s extremely distracting.“I see,” he fills his own glass and immediately takes a long sip. He can really feel it hitting him now. Or maybe he’s just getting drunk off of how delicious his best friend looks.Best friend? Satori’s not really sure what to call Wakatoshi anymore. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t give their confusing relationship a title. He doesn’t like to think about it, much like he doesn’t like to think before he acts when he’s around Wakatoshi. That’s where the whiskeyreallyhelps.





	hooked like a junkie

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in around a week and it's quickly become one of my favorite things I've ever written. It honestly started with a single song that my brain immediately wanted to turn into an Ushiten storyline.
> 
> The song is [Sign by VHS Collection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q89io86y5RY), and the title comes from a lyric within it. I really wanted to emulate the rising and falling of the song as well as the eventual crescendo. It's honestly such a powerful song, I hope you'll give it a listen if you've never heard it. 
> 
> Other honorable mentions for songs I played on repeat while writing this are [Altar by Machineheart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nX1GBJNZic), [Always Something There to Remind Me by Naked Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVrELhxOFnM), and [On the Rise by Brett](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iuwqCErQGPY). For some reason I usually take a ton of inspiration from music when I'm writing anything.
> 
> I want to make a disclaimer that I am not trying to demonize either of these characters (I literally never want to do that, they mean so much to me!!!) and I don't believe either of them are more at fault than the other. I'm also not trying to demonize any kind of relationship that is represented in this fic. This is simply my take on a deeply rooted friendship going sour.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! As a reminder, I don't have a beta, but I'll look over this in a few days and check for mistakes. For now, I apologize in advance for any that are there. Thanks for reading ;;

Satori takes a long drink of his whiskey. It’s going to be a long night.

That’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy Wakatoshi’s company. On the contrary, he _loves_ spending time with his high school best friend, talking about their new grown-up lives. Talking about adult things that make him feel like a drone, things like taxes, utility bills, marketing, and accounting… all of this would normally bore Satori to tears. 

But with Wakatoshi, it’s different. It always has been.

As if following a social cue he doesn’t entirely understand, Wakatoshi takes a drink too. His cheeks are already flushed; he’s always been a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Satori’s luckier (or maybe not), since it’s always taken him a while even for hard drinks to affect him.

Wakatoshi’s glass hits the coffee table, the ice cubes hitting it’s interior sending an echoing clinking sound throughout Satori’s tiny studio apartment. Well, maybe it didn’t echo through the room; but it certainly echoes through Satori’s slightly foggy brain. Wakatoshi’s first glass isn’t even _empty_ yet. Satori eyes his own, swishes around the small amount left inside. Maybe he’d rushed through his three drinks a little _too_ quickly.

“We had an interesting client come through the office today,” Satori makes a feeble attempt at conversation, though his eyes are settled -- no, stuck -- on Wakatoshi’s pushed-back bangs, “some beauty start-up that claims to make pills that get rid of gray hair.”

“That seems unlikely,” Wakatoshi says simply, picking his glass up again and _finally_ emptying it.

“That’s what we said,” though it’s difficult, Satori tears his eyes away from Wakatoshi’s perfectly messy hair, vaguely gesturing towards his glass with his own, “y’want more?”

“I don’t want to drink all of your whiskey,” Wakatoshi furrows his brow, Satori notes how annoyingly cute it is when he does that, even after all these years.

“S’fine,” Satori insists, getting up and slightly wobbling on his way to the kitchen. 

Why he hadn’t already had the bottle of whiskey on the table, he’s not sure. Though he’d bought it just two nights ago, it’s only one-quarter full by now. Not that he’s surprised; Wakatoshi’s been coming by every evening for at least a couple of months now, and alcohol has been a common theme throughout.

Plopping back down on the couch, Satori fills Wakatoshi’s glass again, “So, any news from the exciting world of accounting?”

“No,” Wakatoshi bluntly answers, staring unblinkingly at Satori.

Satori’s running out of potential small talk to keep him focused anywhere besides Wakatoshi’s slightly unbuttoned dress shirt. And why did he have to roll up his sleeves? It’s extremely distracting. 

“I see,” he fills his own glass and immediately takes a long sip. He can really feel it hitting him now. Or maybe he’s just getting drunk off of how delicious his best friend looks.

Best friend? Satori’s not really sure what to call Wakatoshi anymore. Maybe it’s best he doesn’t give their confusing relationship a title. He doesn’t like to think about it, much like he doesn’t like to think before he acts when he’s around Wakatoshi. That’s where the whiskey _really_ helps.

It’s not like Wakatoshi holds himself back either, so Satori doesn’t feel too guilty when his hand trails lazily towards Wakatoshi’s knee. He doesn’t feel too guilty when he squeezes and Wakatoshi stares back at him with hungry, bloodshot eyes. 

Okay, so maybe they’re both drunk and consent isn’t super clear. But would Wakatoshi really keep coming over every single night if he didn’t want this? Would he keep unbuttoning his pants and letting Satori ravish him as he tugs at his hair? Would he keep shoving Satori’s face against the couch and fucking him with unbridled force?

It’s confusing, Satori knows. It’s certainly not how most best friends spend their time together, especially when conversation feels impossible these days. Part of him desperately wishes for the simpler times when he’d always laugh up a storm in Wakatoshi’s presence, for the moments when Wakatoshi would genuinely compliment him and build him up when he needed it most.

But another part of him wants to ignore that, wants to get drunk and do _this_ , all the things he’s wanted to do to Wakatoshi ever since he’d fallen madly in love with him and spiraled into painful unrequited feelings all those years ago. But is it worth it? Is it worth holding on to something he knows he’ll never have? Is it worth spending all these nights engaging in empty small talk before having equally meaningless sex?

Satori doesn’t know. He’s never liked to think too much before he acts.

**\-----**

Wakatoshi’s mind is buzzing with the aftereffects of last night.

There’s talk going on around him, though he’s having a very difficult time processing any actual words. Usually it’s not this hard, but perhaps his nightly routine is starting to have negative effects on his ability to work efficiently.

Why Satori keeps allowing Wakatoshi to join him for drinks every single night is certainly confusing. Surely he has better things to do, or better friends to spend his frankly scarce free-time with. It’s quite annoying, if he thinks about it too much. 

Wakatoshi doesn’t consider himself fun to be around, and he doesn’t consider that a _bad_ thing. It’s just that his priorities are very different from someone like Satori, who puts fun above everything else all the time. How is it that he can do that? Shouldn’t he be calming down, letting go of the times when they were younger and didn’t have to be adults?

Then again, Wakatoshi can’t place too much blame on him. After all, _he’s_ the one who keeps going back every night.

“Ushijima?”

Wakatoshi blinks, immediately looking up from the papers in front of him and towards his chief financial advisor. Judging by the concerned stare of his senior, Wakatoshi assumes he didn’t hear whatever was being said to him just now.

“The balancing sheets,” she reiterates, “do you have them for me?”

“Yes,” Wakatoshi quickly sifts through the papers in front of him and hands one to her.

“Thank you,” she clears her throat, “next thing on the list is…” 

Wakatoshi’s mind goes foggy again. 

Once the meeting is over, he crosses the accounting office with as much speed as possible. He’d like to avoid his coworkers’ personal and annoying questions relating to his lapse of focus just now. They’re always trying to make annoying small talk with him, always trying to find out about his personal life as if it’s any of their business. When he’s finally in the safety and comfort of his office cubicle, Wakatoshi stares at a computer screen full of formulas and numbers, things that make sense to him. If only everything could be this easy.

After an hour of calculating, an hour of sweet solitude and complete focus, there’s a soft knock on the doorway of his cubicle. Startled out of his trance, Wakatoshi turns in his chair and finds the chief financial advisor leaning against the doorframe.

“Hello,” Wakatoshi mumbles. He desperately hopes she’s not here to question him further.

“What was that earlier?”

Of course he was wrong.

“I apologize,” he looks at his computer screen, then back at her, “I had a late night last night.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but at least her expression is more concerned than upset.

“You’re one of my best people, Ushijima. When you’re in top form, this entire office runs much smoother. Make sure you get some good rest tonight.”

“I will,” Wakatoshi says, but he’s sure it will be a lie come tomorrow, “thank you.”

Without another word, she’s gone, the heels of her shoes clicking against the tile floor. The sound echoes through Wakatoshi’s still-foggy brain, reminding him of the clinking of ice cubes in a glass of whiskey. Reminding him of Satori, of his fiery hair, of his soft lips, and of the freckles still dusted across his cheeks and neck… 

No. Wakatoshi stops himself. Now certainly isn’t the time to let his mind wander. Satori is his best friend, he always has been despite Wakatoshi believing he’s no good for him. Satori is too loud for him, and while he is audibly so, Wakatoshi doesn’t mean that literally. Satori’s life, his personality, his _everything_ is loud in the best way possible; it’s something that Wakatoshi has admired since the first day they met in high school.

Satori is loud, but Wakatoshi knows he will only muffle him. He knows he would suffocate him and suck all the light out of him if he got too close. And he cannot allow himself to do such a thing, it wouldn’t be fair or right, even if he feels things for him. _Confusing_ things.

As if sensing that he’s being talked about -- and Wakatoshi wouldn’t be surprised if he really _could_ sense things like that -- a text notification from Satori flashes across Wakatoshi’s phone screen. He does his best to ignore it and continue working formulas and numbers, tries to stay focused and not allow himself to think about things he can’t decipher.

But his phone is right there, right next to his mousepad, inches from his hand. He tells himself he doesn’t have to respond, he’s allowed to ignore Satori, he’s allowed to ignore the inevitable for now.

Tendou Satori  
  
got a fresh bottle of whiskey waiting for u if u wanna come by~  
  


Wakatoshi’s heart sinks. Or maybe it swells? He often can’t tell the difference. His fingers hover above the keyboard on his phone. Regardless of his answer, he knows he will end up at Satori’s front door again tonight. He always does, no matter how much he tells himself not to. 

Tendou Satori  
  
got a fresh bottle of whiskey waiting for u if u wanna come by~  
  
I will be there at 8.  
  


Wakatoshi immediately shuts off his screen and places his phone face-down on his desk again.

He can’t keep doing this. He _can’t_. There’s too much at stake, too much of a risk of breaking his own heart and ruining their friendship, as diluted as it is now. That’s the trouble with ending this; at this point, every single time they’ve met up there’s been some form of sexual tension that usually becomes satiated. There’s no genuine conversation anymore, no laughter and joy. And yet… Wakatoshi can’t allow himself to admit that what they had years ago is gone, stifled by the stress and responsibilities of adulthood.

Tonight will be different, Wakatoshi thinks -- no -- _demands_ of himself. He will not give in to Satori’s sly stare or the feeling of his hand on his thigh. It’s time to be strong, and it’s time to make things different.

He just hopes he can remain this sturdy when he enters the same room he’s spent countless nights of pent-up feelings in, with a man who could crush his heart in his bare hands at any second.

But really, that might be less painful than pretending things are okay.

**\-----**

Wakatoshi is acting strange tonight.

Well, he’s always a _little_ strange, that’s part of his charm, of course. But his glass of whiskey is still full, his ice cubes have melted and diluted his alcohol, and he hasn’t taken any sips. In fact, he hasn’t even rolled up his sleeves, unbuttoned his shirt, or pushed his bangs back. He’s not making himself comfortable like he usually does. Maybe something bad happened at work? Oh! There’s a possible conversation starter. 

“You alright? Y’seem spacey.”

“I’m fine,” Wakatoshi says, as forward and blunt as usual.

“You haven’t had any of your drink,” Satori points out, sipping at his own, “do ya want something different? I’ve got wine and beer too. Pick your poison, Wakatoshi.”

“I would rather not have anything,” Wakatoshi shifts around awkwardly on his side of the couch, “thank you, though.”

Odd. Wakatoshi’s never turned down his offer, even though he can barely get through one drink before he’s toast. Satori won’t pressure him, of course, but he’s not blind to the fact that something’s off. In fact, his anxieties are starting to send him into a dangerous spiral of uncertainties.

Just how should he feel about Wakatoshi’s reluctance to open up to him? How should be feel when normal, sober Wakatoshi feels visibly uncomfortable in the residence of his so-called “best friend”? How should he feel about, all these things considered, Wakatoshi’s continued stays on this couch every single night? Is he simply doing it just to appease Satori? Maybe he actually doesn’t want to be here, maybe he doesn’t care for Satori anymore like he used to. Is he pretending to enjoy himself in an effort to keep Satori from falling apart? If anyone in this whole world knows how fragile Satori’s need for strong connections is, it’s Wakatoshi. 

Conversation would probably help clear all of this up, but conversation is hard when you’re tipsy and terrified of ruining the perfect world you’ve built in your head. Everything you thought you had with the person you care about more than anything else, even if your connection isn’t strong anymore and you’re living under a guise… all of that could be taken from you in one swift moment if you start to test it. And Satori doesn’t think he has the strength to do that.

Looking at Wakatoshi’s face and noticing how he’s refusing to make eye contact makes him realize he _definitely_ doesn’t have the strength, and maybe Wakatoshi doesn’t either.

Satori chugs the rest of his drink, slams the glass on the coffee table and sighs as he feels the liquid slowly burn his throat. Through heavy eyes he glances at his watch, noting that it’s already almost midnight. By now they’d usually be engaging in some sort of emotionless sex, but maybe Wakatoshi’s lost interest in that too. Satori can’t blame him; as much as he personally enjoys being able to feel Wakatoshi in ways he’s always dreamt of, it’s still not enough. 

Hell, he hasn’t even kissed him before, hasn’t made eye contact with him during all this sex. He hasn’t had _anything_ like that with the man he desperately wishes he could have something real with. He’s never even come close. Somehow actions like that, things so much less involved than anything else they’ve done, feel like they seal the deal of having something more than a friends-with-benefits sort of relationship. Satori supposes that’s what they are: friends-with-benefits. It just doesn’t feel like an accurate title.

Besides, Satori’s starting to lose sight of any sort of benefit from this situation. If he can’t have all of Wakatoshi, mind and body, heart and soul, he’s not sure he wants him at all. And that’s a painful truth to swallow.

He just wishes he were strong enough to either do this thing for real, or break it off completely.

At the end of the night, Satori’s vision is blurry and he feels even more nauseous than usual. Wakatoshi, completely sober, walks out of the apartment without saying anything more than a ‘goodbye’. Satori watches him go without a word, feels an ache in his chest and the sting of oncoming tears in his eyes.

Dammit, he wishes he weren’t so in love with someone so unattainable, someone so _perfect_ , someone with his entire life together. Someone that he knows he could unintentionally ruin in a matter of minutes.

Is he even in love? It’s not like there’s substance to their conversations, but Satori’s never minded that. In fact, in high school, Wakatoshi used to say barely anything when they hung out, but at least back then he would show some sort of emotion. He would smile sometimes, or softly laugh at Satori’s admittedly terrible jokes, he would get upset when Satori talked about his troubled past, and he would light up with pride whenever they talked about volleyball. That’s what Satori misses the most, he thinks. He misses _that_ Wakatoshi.

But that Wakatoshi seems to have faded away. Today’s Wakatoshi is consumed by work, not by passion. And it’s possible Satori’s lost a little bit of himself too through the years. Some bonds, as strong and concrete as they feel, aren’t meant to last forever.

Shakily reaching for the whiskey bottle, Satori brings it up to his lips. He almost takes a drink before he sees a black lump in the corner of his eye.

Wakatoshi’s suit jacket. He must have forgotten it.

With this much alcohol in his system, Satori knows there’s no way he’d be able to maintain balance enough to chase after Wakatoshi and give it back to him. He supposes he’ll just have to leave it here and give it to him tomorrow. _If_ he comes over tomorrow, anyway. 

Barely hanging on to any consciousness, the last thing Satori remembers is pulling Wakatoshi’s jacket against his chest, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne, and fading into sleep.

**\-----**

Wakatoshi is much more focused this morning.

At least, after a good night’s rest, he feels more awake. But clear and sober consciousness can’t melt away the ache he still feels in his chest. If anything, that’s gotten worse.

Last night was the first time in a long time that he’d been sober while Satori was drunk and out of his mind. Which was good, as far as resisting whatever animalistic urges either of them feel when they’re on that gray chenille couch together. When it came to his clear view of just how unhealthy Satori’s overall appearance has gotten, how much pain is hidden behind those eyes he used to find so big and bold and beautiful, and how much his light has already dulled… that wasn’t as good. 

Thinking back, Wakatoshi almost wishes he _had_ gotten drunk.

His computer remains a place of comfort, the numbers and formulas filling up the screen are clear and concise. He doesn’t need the assistance of any substance to understand them. They feel like home. The same way Satori’s laughter used to feel like home.

When was the last time he’s heard him laugh? Not the kind where he simply breathes through his nose and smirks just a tiny bit. Not the kind that sounds sarcastic. Not the kind that sounds forced, not the kind where he stares wistfully at a blank wall, and definitely not the kind that feels almost sad in a way. 

Wakatoshi can’t remember. He thinks back to the day they graduated, the day Satori had run up to him and nearly toppled him over in a huge hug. His voice was so loud, his laughter practically echoed through the entire school building, and still Wakatoshi didn’t mind. It was then and there that they’d promised each other they would never stop being friends. Of course, that had always felt like a given, ever since the day they bonded over a mutual love of reptiles in their first year. Something in the back of Wakatoshi’s mind always told him that this, him and Satori, would be forever. But he was young and immature, and it was childish for him to believe in such promises.

If he’d known back then what ‘forever’ meant -- long whiskey-fueled nights of loveless sex -- he’s almost positive he wouldn’t have wanted that. He would have dropped Satori, insisted that it was for both of their benefits, and he would have saved his best friend.

He would have saved himself, too. Though he cares less about that.

Like a replay of yesterday, Wakatoshi’s phone buzzes with a text notification. He doesn’t even need to look in order to know who it’s from. Either they really are linked by some otherworldly power, or Satori really _hasn’t_ lost his strange ability to sense things.

Tendou Satori  
  
hey. u left ur coat at my place. do u want me to swing by ur office?  
  


Somehow the thought of Satori showing up here at his place of work seems like the worst idea possible. Knowing how last night went with only one of them sober, Wakatoshi can’t imagine how awkward it might be with both of them meeting up somewhere completely sober. It would certainly be nice to see someone he cares so much about looking at least a little more healthy or lively.

But it may also crush his, or Satori’s, heart even more, and he doesn’t want to risk it.

Tendou Satori  
  
hey. u left ur coat at my place. do u want me to swing by your office?  
That’s okay. I will come by and pick it up tonight.  
  


Almost immediately, Satori’s response pops up, and Wakatoshi’s heart aches just a little bit more. 

Tendou Satori  
  
hey. u left ur coat at my place. do u want me to swing by your office?  
That’s okay. I will come by and pick it up tonight.  
  
u sure? im just down the street, would love to see u  


Wakatoshi’s hand balls up into a fist. He feels like punching something, or throwing his desk chair at the wall. Why is he angry? He should be _thrilled_ that Satori is expressing interest in seeing him outside of their typical routine. He should feel good that he wants to see him at his place of work, that he wants to make the effort to visit him and --

He can’t. Wakatoshi slowly releases the tension in his hand, fingernails leaving little crescents on his palm. He firmly reminds himself: this is not for his own benefit, but for _Satori’s_. He has to let him go eventually, and he knows that allowing him here, in his cubicle, in his own personal sanctuary, would be a disastrous move. Every piece of his haven would fall apart, and Satori would be even more poisoned by Wakatoshi’s dull and critical world.

He knows it sounds dramatic; maybe Satori’s way of adding spice and pizazz to everything has always left a mark on Wakatoshi. Much of Satori’s antics have always left a permanent spot on Wakatoshi’s being. He’s disappointed to admit that much of his own traits have probably left scars on Satori as well.

Tendou Satori  
  
hey. u left ur coat at my place. do u want me to swing by your office?  
That’s okay. I will come by and pick it up tonight.  
  
u sure? im just down the street, would love to see u  
I apologize, but we shouldn’t.  
  


Wakatoshi sets his phone on his desk, face-down. He closes his eyes tightly, and opens them again.

Not even the comfort of numbers can distract him from the painful ache in his chest.

**\-----**

“I thought you quit smoking a couple years ago?”

Satori only barely registers Eita’s voice from across the table for two outside a small deli. He’s a little too busy trying to hold himself back from erupting in a rage at Wakatoshi’s last response.

“Yo,” Eita kicks Satori’s ankle from under the table.

“I did,” Satori confirms, takes a long drag on his cigarette and flicks the ashes on the sidewalk, “but I felt the itch again recently.”

“So you decide to scratch it, ending all the hard work you put in,” Eita’s tone is digging a little too much into Satori’s migraine-riddled brain, “instead of calling your best friend and asking him to kick the shit out of you for even thinking about letting yourself start smoking again.”

Okay, he’ll give him a faintly-amused scoff for that one.

“Didn’t think about that, I guess,” he shrugs, making direct eye contact with Eita as he takes another drag; he’s always liked pushing his buttons like this.

“Well, you say the word and I’ll climb across this table,” he taps the tabletop with his finger for added effect, “rip that thing out of your hand, and stomp on the rest of the carton.”

“While you’re at it, maybe stomp on this brain of mine too,” Satori gestures towards his head, towards the absolute disaster that his hair has become over the last two months, “if you aren’t the death of me, this migraine will be.”

“The smoke isn’t helping,” Eita states bluntly.

What Eita doesn’t know is that it is. The only thing that might help more right now is a bottle of alcohol. He’ll do whatever he can to drown out the thoughts and questions plaguing his brain these days.

“Seriously,” his best friend’s tone shifts to something more serious, “are you alright?”

“Physically?” he winks, “You wanna find out, Eita-kun~?”

“Fuck off,” Eita makes that stupid annoyed face of his, pursed lips and everything, “you know what I mean, don’t avoid the question.”

Honestly, Satori would _rather_ continue avoiding it, he’d rather keep pushing his buttons and putting off any more questions. Both for Eita’s sake and his own; he’s not sure he’s willing to dig too far into his brain to find an answer to that question.

“The smoking, the hangovers,” now he _really_ sounds serious, and he’s close enough for Satori to smell his minty fresh breath; Eita always did have an obsession with oral hygiene, “you even _look_ sick, I’m starting to really worry about you.”

“Starting to? I’m offended, Eita-kun…” 

His tablemate’s annoyed stare is enough to make him open up, just a little bit.

“M’fine,” Satori mumbles, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, “just… y’know. Livin’ the dream.”

Eita clearly isn’t buying that answer, but he clearly isn’t willing to keep pushing either. Instead, he shifts the topic to something else, something that makes Satori wish he’d never come to lunch with him in the first place.

“How’s Wakatoshi? I heard you guys were hanging out again.”

At the mere mention of Wakatoshi’s name, Satori entire body aches. His heart feels like it might sink into his stomach. His tongue yearns for the numbing burn of alcohol.

“Wouldn’t know,” he forces a shrug, “haven’t seen him in years.”

“Oh,” Eita looks genuinely confused, which is a good sign; at least he couldn’t crack that lie, “for real? Damn, I was hoping you guys would reconnect, always felt like a given.”

Satori sighs, digs in his pocket for another cigarette and places it between his lips as he flicks his lighter.

“Me too, but, y’know,” smoke fills his vision, “some things aren’t meant to last forever, Eita.”

**\-----**

Somehow feeling less strong than he did the previous night, Wakatoshi slowly climbs the creaky iron stairway towards Satori’s sixth-floor apartment. He can hear laughter emanating from one of the apartments he walks by, giving him some sort of false hope that maybe he’ll get to hear that sound tonight. It’s unlikely, but there’s not much he _wouldn’t_ give up in order to hear it at least one more time.

He doesn’t have to knock on the front door; it’s already unlocked and even if it weren’t, Satori’s given him a spare key. It was a kind gesture, but even so Wakatoshi wishes he didn’t have it weighing down his wallet.

Inside, Satori’s already prepared two glasses of ice on the coffee table, flanked by a half-full bottle of whiskey. Wakatoshi knows how this will go: he will walk in with the intent of simply grabbing his coat and leaving, Satori will offer him a drink and a spot on the couch for a while, and Wakatoshi’s desperate and foolish heart will give in. Just like it always does.

“Hey,” Satori greets him, sleepy eyes looking up from the television, towards Wakatoshi, and then back down.

“Hello,” Wakatoshi replies, already frustrated by Satori’s inability to make eye contact with him.

“There’s your,” Satori pauses, gestures towards a freshly washed suit jacket hanging on the door to his bedroom, “coat.”

“Ah, thank you,” Wakatoshi walks towards the garment, wondering if he should put it on and leave in a hurry or if he should give in to the tiny sliver of hope in his heart and sit on the couch, “you didn’t have to get it cleaned.”

Satori shrugs, stares unblinking at a screen playing local news, something he never would have been interested in watching years ago, “S’fine.”

If Wakatoshi showed his feelings on his face, he’s sure he’d be wearing a scowl right now. It’s all so confusing. He shouldn’t be frustrated with Satori right now, especially since he went to the trouble of getting Wakatoshi’s suit jacket dry-cleaned. His overall detachment and lack of interest makes Wakatoshi’s blood boil when it absolutely shouldn’t; he’s trying to _disconnect_ from Satori, not get close again.

He just doesn’t recognize this man anymore, doesn’t recognize _himself_ anymore.

“You can stay if you want,” Satori clears his throat, “but no pressure.”

“Would you like me to stay?” 

“If you want to,” something in his tone makes that statement sound like a plea.

Wakatoshi’s mind is buzzing with internal conflict. If he stays, he will be able to indulge the side of himself that wants so desperately to be with this man, despite him being a shell of his old self. He will be able to answer the question of whether or not the real Satori will peek through thick curtains of apathy. If he leaves, he will be taking a stance against himself to move on, and to allow Satori to move on as well. He will be doing what’s best for both of them.

“You don’t have to,” Satori’s looking at him now, dark undereye circles intensified by the single lamp in his small living space, “It’s okay. I get it.”

“I want to,” Wakatoshi’s lost the battle far before he crosses the room and takes a seat on the same spot he has every other night, “I want to stay.”

Satori doesn’t look at him, and it _kills_ Wakatoshi. Instead he pours them both a drink and immediately downs half of his glass. 

Wakatoshi struggles with the question of whether or not he should drink. Last night, it had made things harder. However, when he’s sober, he has more willpower to keep himself from giving in to his urges. In the end, he decides to take it slow, as he generally does. 

But, being the total lightweight that he is, his head is buzzing after only one glass, his eyes are losing focus after his second, and his hands are starting to itch for the man sitting next to him by the time he’s finished his third.

He’s lost count of how many Satori’s had by now, but judging by the bottle of whiskey basically being empty, and the way Satori’s looking at him with his usual drunken and hungry stare, he’s sure he’s had at least a couple more than Wakatoshi.

“Why,” Satori mumbles, words slurring together, “why’d you say no today?”

Wakatoshi’s brain certainly isn’t in a place to know what in the world Satori is talking about, and he’s too drunk to hide the exaggerated confusion on his face.

“Y’don’t even remember,” Satori makes a throaty noise and Wakatoshi worries he might throw up, “shoulda known y’wouldn’t,” he reaches forward, pressing a finger against Wakatoshi’s forehead, “y’always were a lil dense, Wakatoshi-kun.”

Usually the use of that suffix with his name feels like a compliment, but this time it feels sarcastic, like a quick and ruthless jab at Wakatoshi’s heart. 

Wracking his brain, Wakatoshi finally remembers what Satori is talking about. Of course. He’d wanted to bring his coat by and give it to him, but Wakatoshi had said no, for both of their benefits. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to hear how Satori felt about that.

“Had to,” Wakatoshi grunts, “couldn’t risk it.”

“Risk what?” Satori narrows his eyes, hiccups, and nearly topples forwards as he leans towards Wakatoshi, “Whaddya mean?”

His brain hurts just trying to come up with an answer. He himself knows what he means but words are difficult when everything is blurry and you’re only half-conscious. Words are hard when you know saying them could spark an explosion.

“I get it,” Satori slaps his hand against Wakatoshi’s thigh, squeezing and digging his fingernails against woven fabric, “y’were afraid you’d give in to what y’want, huh?”

Wakatoshi barely gets any sound of a counter out of his mouth before Satori slinks closer and sloppily fiddles with his belt, “This’s what y’want, right?” he finally gets it undone, unzips Wakatoshi’s pants and cups his cock, “s’what I’m good for.”

If Wakatoshi had any sense of anything right now, he’d immediately shut down that statement. It’s not true, it’s never been true. Satori’s good for so many things, and letting himself consider that small statement brings the warm threat of tears to his eyes. As furious as he is with himself, he lets Satori do what he wants, lets himself give in to something he can’t get enough of. It’s not what Satori’s good for, but if they’re both drunk and if it’s the only way he can feel close to him without completely breaking him, Wakatoshi will take it. 

If it’s what Satori wants, he’ll give it to him.

Eventually they end up like they usually do; Satori’s face stuffed against the couch, moaning loudly as his cock rubs repetitively against woven upholstery, as Wakatoshi fills him and pounds against him with the force necessary to vent his frustration and anger. Wakatoshi’s fist threatens to rip the fabric of the couch, his other feels like it might tear Satori’s hair from his skull. In a sloppy effort to stifle his own guttural release, he leans down and sinks his teeth into Satori’s neck, likely breaking skin. He can’t tell; he’s had his eyes tightly closed for most of this, he always does.

When they’re done, Satori lays there for several seconds, catching his breath and trying not to vomit. When he feels like he might -- and Wakatoshi can tell by the gagging and other throaty noises -- he stumbles towards the bathroom, bumping into the wall several times before reaching his destination. 

Doing his best to ignore the violent sounds of Satori throwing up, Wakatoshi drags a hand through his hair and attempts to focus long enough to fix his shirt and refasten his belt. Not that it matters too much; he assumes that at least one person has probably seen him come out of this apartment looking like a complete mess.

When he stumbles across the room to grab his clean suit jacket, Wakatoshi gets a glimpse of Satori in the bathroom, leaning over the toilet and gagging. Though his shirt is still on, its wide and stretched-out neck gives Wakatoshi a clear view of teeth marks and of an already-forming bruise. 

Now he feels like _he_ might vomit.

Wakatoshi quickly puts his jacket on and heads for the front door. If Satori calls his name -- and he thinks he might have -- he chooses not to hear it. He leaves the dimly lit apartment and locks the door behind him, fleeing from something he knows he has responsibility for.

Somehow, the chill wind causes him to regain slight control of his body and senses. He’s still tipsy, that’s for sure, but at least he’ll make it back to his own apartment without toppling over, possibly without throwing up on the sidewalk.

He won’t, however, make it back to his place without breaking apart in a fit of tears.

**\-----**

“The hell is that?”

Eita really has a habit of breaking Satori out of deep and usually painful thoughts, which he supposes is a good thing. Doesn’t make him any less annoying, though. Annoying in a good way, somehow.

“What?” Satori asks, poking at his salad with a fork.

“On your neck,” Eita taps his finger on his own, in the same place where Satori’s developed a rather large bruise, “is that…?”

“Is it what?” Satori raises an eyebrow. He’s already craving some sort of unhealthy but numbing substance, “It’s a bruise, big deal.”

“No,” Eita tilts his head, leaning forward and mumbling, “are you sleeping with someone?”

“You got that from a bruise?” he keeps his tone sarcastic.

“It’s not just a bruise, Satori, I’m not a dumbass,” Eita scoffs, “that’s a hickey and you know it, stop tip-toeing around it. The Satori I know would practically be _bragging_ about getting any sort of action.”

While that may be true for the past, Satori’s not really keen on bragging about continually feeling like he’s simply satisfying the sexual needs of his lifelong best friend, nothing more. He doesn’t want to brag about feeling like a piece of meat.

“It’s not a big deal,” he digs in his pocket for his carton of cigarettes, feeling disappointed when he realizes he only has a couple left, “if I told you about every sexcapade I’ve had, we’d be here for hours, Eita.”

“Alright, quit bragging,” Eita leans back and gives an amused smirk, “and don’t say ‘sexcapade’, it’s… weird.”

Well, it’s not an entirely true statement. Sure, Satori’s had a lot of sex over the years, starting with a few very awkward moments in high school, but he doesn’t think it’s anything remarkable for someone his age. He’s had many partners, some of which he felt very real things for, some that he’s definitely doing better without, some he’d kept around just for fun… 

And one that he wishes he could quit, but at the same time… he doesn’t. One that leaves him in a constant state of confusion and frustration. One that he feels endless amounts of responsibility for.

He breathes deep, inhaling until he feels like he might choke, then exhaling and letting smoke cloud both his vision and probably Eita’s.

“You need help,” Eita teases, waving his hand in front of his face.

Satori wonders what percentage of that statement is genuine concern, and what percentage is actually teasing. Knowing Eita, it’s probably a balanced mix of both.

“I know,” Satori mumbles, trying to come up with another sarcastic response.

For some reason he’s having a hard time switching on the quick-witted side of his brain lately. He looks out towards the street, watching traffic move at a snail’s pace, trying to find a different distraction for his brain to hyperfocus on, some inspiration for a funny, lighthearted joke. He comes up blank.

“Trust me,” he looks down at the table, at his barely touched salad, “I know.”

Eita says nothing, but when he reaches across the table to give Satori’s hand a supportive squeeze, Satori’s walls nearly crack.

**\-----**

“I’m worried about your performance, Ushijima.”

Wakatoshi shifts in the cold leather seat sitting in front of his financial advisor’s desk. She’s looking at him in a way that makes him feel like a young boy being punished at school. Yes, there’s some worry in her face, but it’s mostly masked by frustration in the form of a stern expression.

“You’ve made several miscalculations in the latest reports, and you _know_ that sets us back days, sometimes weeks.”

“I apologize,” Wakatoshi says, and he means it. 

He feels like he’s ripping at the seams and falling apart.

“Apologizing won’t fix the mistakes, Ushijima,” she shuts the manila folder she’d been sifting through and leans on the desk, “what do you need? A vacation? More breaks during the day? I can work with you, Ushijima, but you _have_ to communicate with me, _please_.”

Communication… yes, Wakatoshi’s been failing in that aspect a lot lately, hasn’t he? It’s never been his strong point, but even so… 

When he doesn’t give an answer, his advisor sighs.

“This company needs you, Ushijima, but you haven’t been yourself for a few weeks now. I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go if you can’t fix this,” she taps the folder with her fingers, “and if giving you a vacation is what it will take, please let me know.”

Wakatoshi nods in understanding, and as soon as his advisor confirms that she’s done talking, he leaves her office. All eyes are on him as he makes his way back to his cubicle; he can feel them, they make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Whispers are being passed along, and he’s sure that by the end of the day there will be some made-up story about him, quite possibly that he actually _is_ being let go.

Suddenly his cubicle doesn’t even feel like home anymore. It feels cramped and cold and for the first time in a long time he doesn’t even want to turn on his monitor. 

The idea of taking a vacation doesn’t appeal to him. If anything, that might make his situation _worse_. More free time to allow his mind to wander? It does that enough already as it is. Though maybe he could use a week out of town, free of current stresses. 

Then again, knowing that Satori will be in his apartment drinking himself to sleep even if Wakatoshi isn’t there… maybe it wouldn’t be so good after all. 

It’s unhealthy to feel so much responsibility for another human being, it has to be. It’s just so _confusing_ , knowing he has to let this man go if he wants both of them to find a healthier life, telling himself every night that tonight will be the last time when he knows very well how untrue that is. Wakatoshi’s always prided himself on being level-headed and strong-willed, but this… who knew that a single human being would be his downfall, and who knew that it would be someone who’s always meant so much to him.

He finally switches on his monitor, the light of the screen burning his eyes for a few seconds before they adjust. His advisor made it clear; if he doesn’t fix his mistakes and start working efficiently again, he’ll be let go. And that’s not something he even wants to consider.

The only thing he’s finding more difficult to consider is the likelihood that he’ll have to break connection with Satori, and he’ll probably have to do it soon.

**\-----**

Tonight will be different, it has to be.

As much as his body aches for something, used to the habit of drinking several glasses of hard alcohol every night, Satori drowns the need out with some random sitcom on television. He’s never seen this particular show, but somehow it’s working fairly well as far as being a distraction.

The whiskey bottle isn’t in front of him, instead it’s tucked away in a kitchen cabinet, somewhere behind boxes of cereal and random half-eaten bags of candy. The glasses that usually sit on the coffee table in preparation for a long night are resting on a drying rack next to the sink.

It scares him, makes his skin crawl and his body shiver. Just thinking about having a serious talk with Wakatoshi feels like something straight out of a nightmare. It’s something that used to be so easy, used to feel so comfortable, and now he feels like it’ll spell the end of all of this.

It might spell the end of everything he’s ever had with Wakatoshi, and while he knows it’s okay to lose people he’s never _once_ expected that person to be him.

As soon as he hears the familiar turn of the doorknob, he flicks the television off and takes a deep breath. It’s time to be strong, and it’s time to get some answers. To what questions, he’s not entirely sure. But some sort of understanding would certainly lift a heavy weight from his exhausted shoulders.

“Hello,” Wakatoshi greets him as he walks inside, as per usual, though his eyes rest on the coffee table for a moment. Satori can sense the confusion practically radiating off of him.

“Hey,” Satori replies, just like normal, “how was work?”

“Fine,” Wakatoshi says, but he doesn’t sound too sure of that answer, “and you?”

“The usual,” Satori shrugs, “meetings and stuff.”

“I see,” he’s standing there awkwardly, eyeing the couch as if he’s not sure what to do.

“You’re free to sit down, y’know. I don’t bite. Well, not too hard, anyway.”

Wakatoshi moves around the coffee table, taking his usual seat and resting his hands on his knees. He’s so _awkward_ right now, is he really that dependent on alcohol when he’s around Satori? 

“There aren’t any drinks,” Wakatoshi observes, though that much is plainly obvious, “I should have offered to buy a bottle, I apologize.”

“Nah,” Satori waves a hand dismissively, “actually I was... “ he gulps, urging himself to keep going, “I was hoping we could talk.”

“Talk?” 

“Yeah, like… make sounds with our mouths,” Satori clears his throat, trying to mask his voice cracking under stress, “say words and try to have a conversation.”

“I’m aware of the definition of talking,” Wakatoshi affirms, his tone slightly defensive, “I was implying that I’m not sure what you want to talk about.”

He’s not sure? Satori’s already getting frustrated and he’s already developing a headache. How can Wakatoshi _not_ know what needs to be discussed? How can he be so plainly oblivious to the fact that things are not right between them? 

“I thought it would be obvious,” Satori fiddles with the hem of his shirt, pulls his legs up on the couch into a cross-legged position.

Wakatoshi stares at him with a blank expression, and Satori feels like clawing it away to potentially reveal some underlying emotion, _anything_ would be better than this.

“Us,” Satori mumbles, chewing on his bottom lip, “we should talk about us.”

Sure, Wakatoshi’s never been one for words, and he’s always said very little in conversations he doesn’t have much input in, but the fact that he’s still saying nothing is starting to make Satori’s blood boil. How can he be so uninterested in making an effort to fix all of this, as difficult as it might be? 

“Can you… I dunno,” Satori shakes his head, only intensifying his migraine, “say _something_ , please?”

“I do not know what to say,” Wakatoshi whispers, and Satori feels himself snap.

“ _Goddammit_ , Wakatoshi,” he exhales, balls his hands into fists and presses them against the fabric of his sweatpants, “what happened?” his eyes are burning with oncoming tears, “I just don’t _get_ it, everything was _fine_. Everything was perfect and then it all just… disappeared. And I don’t understand _why_ ,” they pool over and run down his cheeks, “what happened to _us_?”

Wakatoshi avoids his stare, but he softly replies, “We grew up.”

“Bullshit,” Satori snaps, aggressively wiping at his eyes, “that’s a bullshit excuse and you know it.”

“I am not trying to make you angry,” Wakatoshi’s tone remains calm.

“You still _are_ ,” he grits his teeth, “you’re so apathetic about all of this and it makes me furious.”

Something in Wakatoshi snaps too. For some reason, even though he’s visibly offended, Satori’s just grateful to see some sort of emotion on his face.

“I am _not_ apathetic about this. You cannot assume you know how I feel all of the time, Satori.”

“That’s rich, coming from a guy who used to tell me all the time that I had the ability to see right through you,” Satori digs his fingers into the fabric of his couch as if trying to hold himself back from launching forwards and violently shaking Wakatoshi’s shoulders, “I used to know you so well.”

“Yes,” Wakatoshi confirms, “but it shouldn’t be that way anymore.”

Now he’s _furious_. 

“I see,” he whispers, fighting to keep his voice soft as opposed to screaming, “so it’s okay for you to use me like a toy and fuck me whenever you want, but it’s not okay for me to know you on a deeper level anymore.”

“I did not say that,” Wakatoshi narrows his eyes and loudly exhales.

“You didn’t have to,” Satori’s mouth feels uncomfortably dry, “It’s implied.”

“That is a false accusation. I would never want to use you,” he pauses, leaving his mouth open for a few seconds as if there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he wants to say. But, of course, he doesn’t.

He doesn’t say a _single_ candid word. Everything about him is so annoyingly rigid these days. The Wakatoshi that Satori used to know wasn’t such a coward.

“You’re lying through your teeth, Wakatoshi,” Satori drags a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends, “you come here _every_ night and you don’t offer me the decency of a genuine conversation. Instead you say _nothing_.”

Silence.

With a sharp tone, Satori continues his accusations, hoping they’ll dig deeper. He leans closer to Wakatoshi, close enough that he can see the slight shake in his hands, “You bend me over this couch and _fuck_ me until your needs are satisfied and you don’t even _look_ at me while you do it. It makes me feel _disgusting_.”

Wakatoshi’s lip twitches and a tear rolls down his cheek, but his face remains indignant.

“And you get drunk, Satori,” he states calmly, though his voice is trembling just a bit, “every single night. So drunk that I cannot even recognize you anymore. You make the first move and I go along with it, because I want to satisfy you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, for you to be satisfied and happy.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” it’s taking everything in his body to not lunge at Wakatoshi, “maybe spit on me next time, _really_ make me feel like garbage. See if that satisfies me. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Wakatoshi flinches, looking like he’s just been slapped. His lips are parted, but still no words come out. Satori wishes he could smack the words out of him, he wants to _scream_ in his face until Wakatoshi screams back.

“You’re a coward,” Satori hisses, “that’s how I know you aren’t the Wakatoshi I fell for years ago.”

Suddenly Wakatoshi’s standing up, stepping away from the couch, turning his back on Satori.

“What are you doing?” Satori demands.

Without turning around, Wakatoshi gives his answer clearly and bluntly.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”

Satori wishes he had the willpower to stand up and shove Wakatoshi into a wall, wishes he could corner him and have the strength to tell him how he _really_ feels underneath all this pent-up anger. But it wouldn’t matter. Wakatoshi’s too far gone, too perfect and collected and logical for an emotional disaster like Satori.

“Fine,” Satori spits, “walk away from your problems. Leave everything on _my_ shoulders. Let me take the burden, by all means.”

“Goodbye, Tendou.”

The use of his family name brings Satori to his feet, voice cracking as he yells.

“ _Fuck_ you! Don’t come back!”

Wakatoshi is already out the door, but Satori instantly regrets saying those words. Everything in his body is flaring up and he feels like he’s going to explode if he doesn’t release his anger on _something_. 

Pacing around the room, he finds several options, and he loses complete control.

**\-----**

Even before he’s walked out the door and shut it behind him, Wakatoshi’s a blubbering mess. He tightly closes his eyes when he hears another yell, hears something crash against the creaky front door. He pauses for just a second, feeling yet another war take place in his brain. It takes everything in his power to walk away without going back inside and trying to calm Satori down.

It’s not as if he knows how to do that anymore, anyway.

That could have gone so much better, but of course his lack of social skills and his need to be calm and calculated ruined all of that. If he’d allowed himself to be emotionally honest with Satori, maybe things could have gone smoother.

It doesn’t matter. He’s turned his back on Satori, and now he’s walking home, heart empty and face twisted into something stuck between grief and frustration. He’s sure he’d heard Satori say -- no, _yell_ \-- not to come back, and while those words felt like a knife jabbing straight through his throat, he’ll do his best to take it as some sort of blessing. He has to. He knows he’ll rip himself apart if he doesn’t. 

It must be another blessing when he feels the splat of a few raindrops on his head, effectively giving him a clear excuse to ignore the warm drops already running down his cheeks. He should probably be rushing home now that it’s starting to pick up, but for some reason he’s not exactly happy about going home. 

It’s not like his spotless and luxe apartment has ever felt like home, anyway. 

The city around him is still bustling with activity; civilians rush around, some quickly unfurling their umbrellas, some covering their heads with whatever article of clothing they can, and some joyfully running in the rain with friends. Cars dash by, reflections of the city lights visible in their windows and music emanating from their interiors. It’s strange how everything around him can still be so active when he feels like his own world has all but stopped.

The doorman at his apartment complex greets him, but Wakatoshi only offers a quiet grunt and a small nod. The man appears unfazed; Wakatoshi supposes it’s not much different than his typical greeting.

He’s starting to develop a headache from thinking about the events that have just transpired. The elevator can’t move fast enough -- he wishes he were in his bedroom with the door shut, free to quietly rage and release his anger in a healthy way. How he’ll do that, he’s not exactly sure. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this much negative emotion in his entire life. But his hands are trembling and his throat feels tense, like he needs to yell for hours without stopping.

Front door swinging open, Wakatoshi slowly walks inside his modernly-furnished two-bedroom apartment. He looks around the room, fiddling with his keys and chewing on his lip before placing the keyring in a decorative ceramic plate near the front door. The clinking sound it makes sends a chill down his spine.

Wakatoshi sits on his pristine white couch, turning on the flat-screen television mounted to the wall in front of him. The seats of this couch have always felt so hard and unwelcoming in comparison to Satori’s.

Now that he’s home, he doesn’t know what to do. He hates himself for feeling it, but his lips long for the burn of alcohol and his body aches for Satori. He supposes _that’s_ generally how he releases whatever anger he has inside of him. 

_”You don’t even look at me while you do it.”_

Wakatoshi’s eyes tightly close and he rubs his palms against his lids. He didn’t expect for his brain to start picking out words that Satori had said tonight, words that dig and stab like needles at Wakatoshi’s chest. Satori’s always been particularly good at that when he’s had to be in the past -- digging straight into people’s hearts and picking incessantly and effectively at their weaknesses. Wakatoshi’s just never thought _he’d_ be the one on the receiving end of such treatment. 

But maybe he deserves it.

_“It makes me feel disgusting.”_

Maybe he really is as bad as Satori said.

It’s never been his intention to make Satori feel like something that’s any less than he is. He’s a beacon of luminosity and exuberance and his shine is almost blinding, yet something that Wakatoshi would gladly lose his sight for. It’s just that he can’t. His intention has only ever been to make Satori happy without getting too close and muffling his light. He wants Satori to thrive and he wishes he could be a part of that, but it would be so selfish of him to risk it.

It would be selfish of him to be with Satori, and he wishes he could tell him that without feeling so much rage. He wishes he could honestly tell him that without breaking both of their hearts. He’s already done that enough.

_“You’re so apathetic about all of this and it makes me furious.”_

Wakatoshi digs his fingernails into the white leather of his couch, stares straight ahead at a stark gray wall. He was wrong. Satori was _wrong_ to say that. He doesn’t know the pain Wakatoshi’s gone through for two months now, the ache in his chest that keeps him awake every night he comes home. If only he could truly see past Wakatoshi’s walls, but they’ve been built so tall and powerful that nobody can get past them anymore. Sometimes he feels like he himself can’t even get past them.

He hasn’t felt apathy in months, certainly _never_ when he’s around Satori. That would be impossible. His feelings are always elevated and intensified when he’s in his presence, whether they’re positive or negative. 

_“You’re a coward. That’s how I know you aren’t the Wakatoshi I fell for years ago.”_

That’s it. That’s the thought that breaks him.

It’s almost like he blacks out for several seconds. He barely registers standing up, gritting his teeth and feeling something bubbling up in his throat, something that’s been there for days and practically fighting to be let go. He walks back and forth, hearing the small sounds of whining and squealing slip through his teeth. They make him pound his fists against his legs in frustration. They make him feel weak and powerless. 

He _is_ weak and powerless, forced to let fate and truth have its way with what he wishes he could have.

He fists both hands in his hair and tugs, ruining his perfectly tamed bangs as he continues pacing. Surely he must be burning holes in the carpet from walking back and forth so many times; it feels like every inch of his body is on fire, ready to erupt at any moment.

And erupt it does.

Hitting his breaking point, feeling that bubble in his throat finally slip through his tightly clenched jaw, Wakatoshi cries out, howling as he rushes forward and punches the space on the wall that he’d been staring at for so long. He tightly closes his eyes again, repeatedly slamming his fist against the same spot, crying out every single time. The wall gives way, splintering under the force of his anger and leaving behind a dent.

Wakatoshi’s indignation gives way to his grief, his fist unfurls as he continues weakly smacking the wall. Angry shouts transition to desperate wailing. The release is so similar to what he’s felt every drunken night at Satori’s, and it makes him feel sick. The fire inside his body is slowly fading, but the cold wash of despair is taking its place, and it's almost worse. 

Sliding down the wall, he finally hits the carpet and curls into himself, keeping his eyes tightly closed as if trying to hide from the hell he’s created. He sobs, and he lets go for a long time. At some point he hears knocking on his door, followed by hushed and concerned voices. But it doesn’t matter. No one can aid his heart now, not even himself.

Unfortunately only one person has that ability, and if feels like he’s finally slipped from Wakatoshi’s greedy grasp for good.

**\-----**

When Wakatoshi leaves the apartment, all hell breaks loose.

Satori grabs the first thing he sees -- a small potted plant he’d bought a long time ago, now dead. He flings it at the door as soon as it shuts, shouting as he does it. The terracotta immediately shatters, leaving residue on the door and scattering across the faded carpet. Old, dry soil seeps into the floor, causing a mess that will likely be there for months. Not that Satori really thinks about that for more than a second; he’s already moving on to the next object his hands can find.

He’s never felt this much fury and unbridled anger in his entire life, and he’d never have expected Wakatoshi to be the cause, the match that lights an unquenchable flame. Maybe this has been inevitable for weeks, maybe Satori’s a fool to have ever thought Wakatoshi would be any different tonight.

Maybe he’s a fool for believing he deserves anything better.

He slides his hands across the small kitchen counter, shoving several random plates, glasses, and a few knick-knacks he tends to keep around. They hit the floor with a fleetingly satisfying clatter, a mix of shattering and thumping, and Satori pauses, pressing his forehead against the laminate countertop. His body shakes, his breath catches in his throat as he repeatedly smacks his head against the hard surface. 

He only allows himself a brief second of calm; when he stops moving, his brain starts reeling, words repeating over and over and _over_ again. He can’t let them in, he refuses to. He’s not ready to face the inevitable, and though it makes him feel like a child who’s just had his favorite toy taken from him, he continues raging.

He stands up straight again, hands shaking with the need to continue breaking everything they can find. The living room lamp, sitting on the couch’s side table, is next, its cord yanked from the wall as Satori hurdles it across the room. It lands with a thump against the carpet, but the lightbulb shatters, leaving Satori in a dark space with the city skyline being the last source of light. Even still, he doesn’t stop. He flips his coffee table over with his foot, toppling backwards against the couch. 

This _damn_ couch. He knows he’ll have to get rid of it, it houses too many feelings and too many memories.

Finally catching his breath, Satori coughs and turns in his seat, now facing the back of the couch. Breathing hard, he stuffs his face into the gray upholstery and _screams_. The sound is muffled, but it’s loud in Satori’s head and it sends what feels like a shockwave straight through his entire body. The force surges through his arm, towards his hand, and he begins punching the couch with as much power as he possibly can. With every punch comes another scream, and even though his mouth and nose being pressed up against the warm fabric is making it very difficult to breathe, he keeps going.

_“We grew up.”_

He’s starting to get light-headed, but he wouldn’t mind if he passed out. At least he might be able to avoid the echoes playing through his mind. But he’s starting to lose energy too, and his arm is going slightly limp. The final punch shifts to a tight grip on the top of the couch. He lets his hand slip down the chenille fabric, fingernails digging and making a soft tugging noise. 

Satori finally turns his head just enough to take a deep breath, and as he exhales the pressure of every built up emotion releases. It’s silent at first, a simple twitching of his lips as his breath catches in a weak sob. He shakily inhales, and the next exhale is louder, a powerful groan pushing past a weak attempt at keeping his mouth shut.

_“You get drunk every single night. So drunk that I cannot even recognize you anymore.”_

Satori feels _stupid_. He feels like an idiot for ever letting himself get this bad. It started out innocently enough, a drink shared between two high school best friends wanting to reconnect. It was only when he realized that conversation was dwindling and interests simply weren’t lining up anymore that he turned to the bottle, desperate for a way to get through every interaction without having to _feel_ just how uncomfortable things had gotten.

_“I want to satisfy you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, to be satisfied and happy.”_

Satori huffs, thumping his forehead against the couch. This, meaningless sex and empty conversation, is _not_ what makes Satori happy. Wakatoshi of all people should know this, he should know that Satori isn’t that shallow. 

Maybe he _has_ become shallow, stretched thin by the responsibilities and pressure of adulthood. He can’t pretend everything is easy anymore, he can’t skip his way through life, humming and whistling and blissfully ignoring the harsh realities of the world. It feels like he can’t keep up, can’t truly be himself anymore without failing over and over and over again.

_“It shouldn’t be that way anymore.”_

It doesn’t make sense, nothing Wakatoshi has said lately has made any sense at all. Why he wouldn’t want Satori to know him on a deep level anymore fills him with both confusion and heartache. People lose interest in each other, Satori logically knows that, as hard as it is. But it doesn’t make _sense_. It’s like someone flipped a switch in Wakatoshi’s mind that made him realize just how _bad_ Satori’s always been for him.

Throughout their time together, Satori’s always been a crux for Wakatoshi. A distraction and a weight that holds him down and keeps him from reaching his true potential. A burden, insisting that it’s always playtime and that hard work is worthless. A physical example of why there’s no rest for the wicked.

He’s always been too much for Wakatoshi, a pain in his side and an anchor causing him to sink.

_“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.”_

He knows he’s right. Satori tightly closes his eyes and feels tears poking through, hot as they roll down his face. When he opens them his vision is blurred for a moment. He looks around the room, seeing the leftovers of his rage, and he lets out another weak sob.

Wakatoshi is right. He doesn’t deserve this mess. Satori doesn’t deserve _him_. Try as he might, Satori will never match Wakatoshi’s potential, he will never jump high enough to reach the heights Wakatoshi has always been meant to climb.

Satori curls into a ball, whimpering like a child. He sinks farther into the couch and puts his hands over his ears, rocking in place and slowly shaking his head. No amount of resistance will stop the painful reminders rushing through his head. He should have known years ago that this could never be, that it was broken and doomed from the start.

He never should have exposed Wakatoshi to his disastrous disposition in the first place.

**\-----**

It’s been weeks.

42 days to be exact; Wakatoshi’s counted every single one, marked them on his desk calendar with a small red dot at the corner of every box.

Sitting in his cubicle, he eyes the small cheaply-made ‘employee of the month’ trophy and the corresponding paper taped to his wall. His fingers pause only for a second and then he’s typing at the speed of light again. Focus and attention to detail has gotten easier, but he thinks that’s only due to his current lack of alcohol consumption.

Everything else is a different story.

Needless to say, Wakatoshi’s performance at work has once again elevated to a point that he thinks will soon grant him a promotion. It’s been whispered about, it’s been the subject of several office rumors. His chief financial advisor had presented the employee-of-the-month award just five weeks ago as a gesture of gratitude for his improvement, and while his coworkers seemed bitter about it for a few days, things have since calmed down. It seems like they’ve all come to accept it.

Wakatoshi wishes _he_ could accept things that easily too.

Six weeks is a long time, Wakatoshi thinks. It’s around a month and a half, approximately 8.6% of an entire year. Surely that must be enough time to adjust and rebuild himself after he’d had such an awful falling out with --

Wakatoshi shakes his head, grabs a pen out of his desk and places the end between his teeth. He’d started this habit of chewing mindlessly on random objects six weeks ago in an attempt to distract himself from things that simply don’t matter anymore, things that he cannot change. It’s odd, he knows, but it’s certainly much healthier than other options.

His phone buzzes and he jumps slightly in his chair. The pen falls out of his mouth and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately this is still his gut reaction, maybe it’s because he’s hoping the name that flashes across the screen will be --

It’s an automated text from his apartment complex, a reminder of a fancy dinner event going on in the lobby tonight. Wakatoshi assumes he won’t go. It’s possible that the dinner would be a very welcome distraction, but unfortunately he’s had trouble showing his face more than necessary around his neighbors ever since he’d stupidly and carelessly punched a hole through his wall. 

It’s been fixed and repainted now, the repair costs were added on to Wakatoshi’s rent the following month. Money has never been an issue for him, it’s the regret he has a problem with. The job was done so well that he can’t even see the spot at all anymore. It’s like it never happened, like the entire event was a dream. But Wakatoshi knows it wasn’t; he still has nightmares about that evening. 

Wakatoshi taps the pen against his desk and stares at his phone, stares at his list of text conversations, stares at a single name that he hasn’t acknowledged in a long time. He’s done his best to keep himself from thinking about that name, from remembering the way it slips pleasantly off his tongue and reminds him of sunlight filtering through a patio window, of booming laughter and exuberant singing.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he figures it’s been six weeks. He’s built up his walls even higher, he’s developed stronger control. Just this once, for curiosity’s sake, he’ll take a look.

Tendou Satori  
  
u coming by tonight?  
If you’d like me to.  
  
i would! i’ve got high hopes for tonight~  
I will be there at 8.  
  


Reading Satori’s name feels like tiny needles pressing against Wakatoshi’s brain. It doesn’t hurt too much, just stings.

This had been their last text exchange, sent the same day as the following blowup. Looking back, Wakatoshi wonders what his high hopes had been for. He supposes Satori had hoped to come to some kind of resolution, but Wakatoshi still believes that was never possible. Not with how intense things had become. But Satori had always been one to dream up the impossible, so Wakatoshi isn’t surprised.

He admittedly misses that -- Satori’s ability to pull ideas out of thin air, creating little worlds in his head that he truly believes in despite the fact that they could never be possible. There’s a lot of things he misses, but he doesn’t like to spend too much time thinking about them. 

His tongue feels heavy, weighed down by the need to say Satori’s name. He’s gone so long without allowing himself to acknowledge Satori that it now feels as though the action will speak him back into existence. He lips are tightly pressed together and the fiercely logical part of his brain is assuring him that it’s not worth it. He taps the pen against his desk as a faster rate. 

His emotions are going to get the best of him, aren’t they? They always have when Satori’s been involved. It’s like they’re permanently tied together by some unseen and powerful force. Wakatoshi silently scoffs at himself. Now _he’s_ allowing himself to sink into worlds and ideas that simply aren’t logically possible. Satori’s effect on him will likely never fade away. His weakness for that man has never made any sense to Wakatoshi. 

But maybe it doesn’t have to make any sense.

Wakatoshi’s resolve cracks, and his lips part. 

“Satori.”

Breathily mumbling his name feels like Wakatoshi’s just released a tight pressure on his lungs that he didn’t even know was there. 

It feels like he’s opened up a door he’d kept tightly shut for a long time, and past that door is a world of uncertainty and emotions he’s never known how to handle. Past that door is complete darkness, but he can see a faint source of light in the distance, and as he steps through that door he moves closer to it. 

When he opens his eyes, Wakatoshi can feel wetness pooling in their corners. He hasn’t cried in days, and now he’s back to square one. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to step back into territory that he deeply misses so much.

He glances at his phone again, stares at Satori’s name for several seconds before picking the device up. His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating. He wants to, he wants to apologize so badly and try to fix this mess, wants to go back to how things were, wants to undo everything he said and did to Satori. He has to, it’s only fair. He’d be childish not to, right? 

If he apologizes, maybe things will be okay. Even if he can’t have Satori anymore, not the way he really wants to.

Maybe Satori will invite him over again, say Wakatoshi’s name the way he used to -- dragging out the ‘a’ sounds, sometimes practically singing every syllable. Maybe he’ll laugh and Wakatoshi will too, even if doesn’t understand the joke or the context. Maybe they’ll hang out, without alcohol, and enjoy themselves again, reminiscing about high school games and locker room antics. Maybe he’ll feel the warmth of Satori’s light, the pleasant booming of his voice, and everything will be okay.

His fingers hover, his mind races, and then his emotions lose the battle.

Wakatoshi closes his text message app, puts his phone face-down again on his desk, and places his previously hesitant fingers on his computer keyboard -- territory that they’re familiar with.

No, it wouldn’t be fair. It’s _not_ childish to keep Satori from him. It’s probably what his high school best friend wants. Though Wakatoshi is inwardly shutting that door, closing off access to that light in the distance, he’s doing what’s best. For both of their sakes.

He stares at his computer screen, and the light burns his eyes. These calculations won’t solve themselves.

**\-----**

The monotonous drone of the newscaster on television has been Satori’s nighttime companion for the past six weeks. For someone who’s never really troubled himself with the latest political or local news, he’s started to become well-versed.

It’s not as if he _hasn’t_ been spending time with friends; Semi and him go to dinner and lunch quite often, he still keeps up with friends from the past, still frequently talks to coworkers, still meets new people all the time. He’s far too extroverted to be any other way, he’d simply go insane if he kept himself cooped up all the time. 

It’s never a problem until it’s late, when most people have gone to sleep and Satori can feel an all-too-familiar ache in his chest.

Satori pulls his fleece blanket tighter around himself, trying to balance a bag of popcorn in his hand in the process. He pours another bunch into his mouth, all while keeping his eyes focused on the television, on the boring newscaster reading off a teleprompter. Apparently some guy tried to rob a flower shop today, of all things. 

Satori silently scoffs, mouth still full. He vaguely thinks about how offended Wakatoshi would have been if he’d seen that on the news. He’s always been so attached to plant life. Months ago, Satori might have texted him, telling him to watch the nightly news, asking him when and where they should meet up to be vigilante partners.

The puffy white parts of the popcorn melt against Satori’s tongue as his chews, leaving behind hard bits and kernels that crunch against his teeth. He’s always _hated_ the smell of popcorn, but oddly enough its texture has been a good distraction to keep his mouth busy. If he doesn’t, he’s sure that he’ll start salivating for the burning taste of whiskey. The smokes are still an issue, but he supposes they’re the lesser of two evils.

Satori hasn’t had a drink in four weeks, which feels like a huge accomplishment given the months before that. The two weeks before those four weeks were… well, they were rough to say the least. Satori’s sure he went through enough bottles to last a whole month of his nights with --

A particularly hard kernel cracks under the pressure of Satori’s teeth. It hurts a little bit, but probably much less than what he could be feeling if he thinks too hard about Wakatoshi. 

He misses him. _God_ , he misses Wakatoshi.

Satori empties the rest of the popcorn bag into his mouth, aggressively crunching and nearly choking when he swallows. He gets up from his brand new couch, crosses the room and tosses the bag into his trash. Before it hits the bottom of the can, he’s already preparing another one.

The hum of the microwave blends with the continued drone of the television. The warm light of its interior washes a yellow-orange hue across Satori’s face as he watches the bag of popcorn slowly turn in a circle, gradually expanding and making muffled popping sounds. He drums his fingers against the counter he’s leaning on, making clicking noises with his tongue in an effort to keep his mouth busy.

It certainly had no problem being _loudly_ busy the last night Wakatoshi was here.

Satori bites his tongue, closes his eyes and makes a throaty humming noise, matching the microwave. His brain has gotten quite good at pointing out his mistakes again. It used to be a huge issue; right after high school ended he’d gone through quite a bit of therapy to fix years of ignored trauma. Things that he’d stupidly spent his entire high school years acting as if they didn’t exist. But they did, and no amount of pretending to live in some made-up fantasy world would ever be able to fix that.

Much like they can’t fix what happened six weeks ago. But he should have realized that being with Wakatoshi, for real, was always a figment of that very same fantasy world inside his head.

Well, maybe he had at least a _slim_ chance, but his anger and childish tantrum had definitely put the last nail in the coffin. Looking back, he can’t blame Wakatoshi for leaving. If Satori hadn’t gone into the situation ready to defend himself, maybe things could have been better. But it just doesn’t matter now.

Despite that fact, he still holds a lot of guilt on his shoulders. He never should have treated his best friend so poorly and unfairly.

The microwave dings and the light fades away until Satori opens its door. Still hot, he takes the bag in his hand and returns to his spot on the couch. While he waits for its contents to cool down, he whistles along with the nightly news theme song playing on the television. Local commercials start playing, and Satori mumbles along with them. He’s started to memorize all their scripts and jingles at this point.

In the middle of a particularly catchy commercial advertising a local pest control company, Satori’s phone dings with a text notification. Still singing along, he blindly reaches for his phone. Once he’s done enjoying the jingle on television, he looks at the screen and reads a text from Eita.

Semisemi  
  
did you see that flower shop thief on the news? you and i both know who would have had a fit over that  
  


Satori gives an amused scoff before replying. It only takes seconds for Eita to reply again too. 

Semisemi  
  
did you see that flower shop theif on the news? you and i both know who would have had a fit over that  
just wait, maybe we’ll see wakatoshi-kun on the news as the next late night vigilante~  
you’re only saying that because you want to see him in a spandex suit, don’t lie.  
  


Satori stares at the screen, caught between laughing and sighing. Eita knows him so well, but despite Satori being caught in this awful string of events for months, he _still_ has no idea what’s been going on between him and Wakatoshi. He knows the reply was only meant to be a playful jab, but it still takes him a few moments to reply again. 

Semisemi  
  
did you see that flower shop theif on the news? you and i both know who would have had a fit over that  
just wait, maybe we’ll see wakatoshi-kun on the news as the next late night vigilante~  
you’re only saying that because you’ve always wanted to see him in a spandex suit, don’t lie.  
stop reading my mind, eita-kun. u might see things u don’t want to see~  
  


With that, he exits the conversation, returning to the screen that lists all of his messages.

Wakatoshi’s name is right there, plain as day. The number of times Satori’s pained himself by reading their last exchange is countless at this point. He’s not sure why he does it; maybe he wants to recognize that he really _did_ have good intentions, or maybe his mind is trying to remind him of how badly he screwed up that night.

wakatoshi-kun  
  
u coming by tonight?  
If you’d like me to.  
  
i would! i’ve got high hopes for tonight~  
I will be there at 8.  
  


He stares at the screen, stares at his keyboard and wonders what would happen if he said something, anything.

Trying to convince himself to apologize to this man has been a constant internal battle, making Satori feel even more childish than he already has. He’s known Wakatoshi for years, on such a personal level, that it just _shouldn’t_ be this hard, right?

He could do it, he could apologize right now and toss his phone across the room to avoid the dread he might feel, to avoid Wakatoshi’s potentially rude response. Satori certainly wouldn’t blame him, but part of him just wonders if a simple apology would fix all of this.

He’d give _anything_ to have Wakatoshi back again, or at the very least to know that someone so important to him doesn’t hate his guts.

But there’s still worry in his mind, for both of their sakes. What if they reconnected and simply slipped back into old habits? What if Satori continued to negatively impact Wakatoshi’s life, ruining his ability to work and maintain his career? What if he’s selfish for wanting to reconnect with him, wanting to have him back and never let him go again?

Satori drops his phone back on the couch. He pulls his blanket tighter around himself and fixes his stare on the television again. The bag of popcorn in his hand has cooled down, almost too much. Nevertheless, he tears it open and pours another bunch into his mouth. His teeth crunch against small kernels and he blocks out everything besides the newscaster that’s still talking about that flower shop thief.

Satori supposes he’s doomed forever to find reminders of Wakatoshi in everything.

**\-----**

It’s 11:34pm on a Saturday night.

The city is still lively with activity. Rain patters against every surface it can find outside. Music, very muffled, can be heard from a few doors down. Flashing lights from tall buildings reflect off the covered windows in a chilly apartment. The hum of the air conditioning pushes through a ceiling vent. In the kitchen, the dishwasher makes a beeping noise, signaling its cycle being complete.

It’s 11:34pm on a Saturday night and Wakatoshi can’t sleep.

He’s tried every method that’s worked in the past: taking a small dose of nighttime cold medicine, playing various types of calming noises and music, going through a meditation process with the aid of an app on his phone, turning off every single source of light possible, including the digital clock on his nightstand. Nothing has worked, and his mind is still active with thoughts.

He wonders if taking a walk would help. It might, but he’s sure his feet would take him in the direction of a certain sixth-floor apartment across the city. After all, that’s all Wakatoshi’s been able to think about for the past couple days.

Even after two whole months, he can’t stop. His mind and body, heart and soul… they all ache for Satori. And it feels like he can’t ignore it anymore. Despite his logical brain having a tight grip on him, he’s starting to reach his breaking point. Tonight, his heart is winning. And he thinks its true victory will be facing a problem that’s been floating around inside of him for weeks.

With the knowledge that he will not be able to sleep tonight, Wakatoshi sighs, shifting into a seated position in bed and swinging his legs off to the side. His pushes his palms against his thighs, rubbing at the fabric of his shorts. His brain fights, repeating over and over and over again that this isn’t worth it, it’s a recipe for disaster, it’s not what either of them need or deserve, it’s not right, it’s all _wrong_ and no matter what fate does or doesn’t have in store for Wakatoshi, it _can’t_ be Satori, it can’t include his light and his noise and the sound of his voice echoing pleasantly through every crevice of Wakatoshi’s body, it can’t --

Wakatoshi stands up, practically ripping his t-shirt off of himself as he digs through his closet. He replaces it with a sweater, replaces his shorts with a pair of jeans, tugs socks on and heads for his front door. 

“I have to,” he whispers to himself as he slips his shoes on, continuing to fight off the part of his brain that he knows, deep in his soul, is completely wrong, “I have to see him.”

Wakatoshi grabs his wallet and keyring from the ceramic plate near his front door, shoving both into his pockets and quickly heading out the door. The hallway feels too long, the elevator feels like it’s too far away, but when Wakatoshi gets there he presses the button several times, as if that will somehow speed up the process. When its doors begin to move, Wakatoshi pushes past them before they’re even fully open. It’s a blessing that nobody else is inside.

Reaching the lobby, Wakatoshi ignores the unspoken rule of no running on the expensive tile floor, ignores the stares of people who very well could be his neighbors, ignores the doorman’s warning that it’s raining and that he should go back inside and grab an umbrella. Wakatoshi doesn’t need one, doesn’t want to risk going back and changing his mind.

He’s running against the rain; it gently smacks against his face and brings him to raise his arm in a feeble attempt to shield himself. He dashes past people on the sidewalk, calling out quick apologies as he nearly runs into some of them. Usually he’d be better about giving people a proper apology, but right now that feels unimportant.

Within only a couple of minutes, he’s completely soaked. He vaguely regrets choosing jeans as he feels them stick uncomfortably against his skin. His sweater feels heavier too, and his hair is starting to drip against his neck and forehead. 

His brain is starting to act up again, telling him that he’s a fool for doing this, that he’ll only be met with disappointment and heartbreak. Wakatoshi shuts it down, reminding himself that he’s already felt heartbreak for the past two months, that it can’t possibly get any worse, that the only potential cure is several feet away, probably curled up on the couch. There’s a chance that he will be turned away, of course, but the risk is worth it. 

Wakatoshi can see Satori’s apartment just a few blocks away, can feel his legs moving faster and burning with the force of it. He nearly trips on a few slick parts of the pavement, but finally he’s standing in front of an all-too-familiar iron flight of stairs. He leans on a lightpost, catching his breath for only a few seconds before climbing.

The steps are even more slick than the pavement, and Wakatoshi knows that running is a huge hazard, but that doesn’t stop him. They creak and moan under the force of his feet until he’s finally reached the sixth floor. He keeps moving until he’s in front of the seventh door down, the one with an old and faded polka-dot doormat. 

He digs in his pocket, finds the key he hasn’t used in so long, and his hands hover over the doorknob. Wakatoshi closes his eyes, takes a deep, shaky breath, turns the lock, and rushes inside.

**\-----**

The second his front door flings open, Satori drops the bag of chips he’d been holding in his hand. They hit the floor and spill everywhere, but Satori ignores the mess.

For a split second, he worries that he’s about to be robbed at gunpoint or maybe murdered by a scary man who’s absolutely drenched. But then when his eyes focus, he realizes… this isn’t a scary stranger; he would recognize that haircut and those cheekbones anywhere. Despite not seeing him in so long, Satori knows that this is --

“Wakatoshi,” he mutters, his voice so quiet that he himself barely registers it, “what are y --”

“I miss you,” Wakatoshi clumsily removes his shoes, moving quicker than Satori is prepared for, “I need you.”

Satori’s mind is reeling as his eyes survey the man he hasn’t seen in what feels like years. He’s soaked, he looks like he’s just run a thousand miles, and he looks desperate for something.

Then his words register, and Satori’s defenses flare up again. Is he really here just to have his needs satisfied again? He knew he should have asked for his spare key back, should have changed the lock or something.

“We can’t do this anymore,” his tone rises and his words spill out quicker, “ _You_ said that, Wakatoshi, you said we can’t and I don’t want -- “

“No,” Wakatoshi shakes his head, moving close enough to fall to his knees in front of Satori. His wet hand tentatively reaches out, resting on Satori’s knee, “no, no, that’s not what I mean.”

Satori’s eyes are already prickling with tears and his voice is starting to shake again. His instincts tell him to get up and walk away, but he’s having a hard time coming up with the strength to do that. He really is stupid for thinking he could handle seeing Wakatoshi again. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, desperate, “You’re not supposed to be.”

Wakatoshi looks down, dragging his eyes up from Satori’s ankles until they land on his face again. He stares, weakly smiles, and Satori can hear the breath pushing past his lips. He licks them, parts them, and once again looks like he has words to say but keeps holding them back.

Satori feels the weight of uncomfortable silence like a load of bricks pressing against his back.

“Wakatoshi, I asked -- “

“I’m in love with you.”

His words hit Satori’s chest like a powerful punch, his lungs feel empty as his breath catches in his throat. He wants to pull his stare away from Wakatoshi, but he can’t. His eyes are wide and searching for any sign on Wakatoshi’s face that could tell him whether or not the words he said just now were serious.

“What did you just --” he starts, and then stops when Wakatoshi’s hand leaves his knee, climbs up to gently cup his face. He’s shaking now, weak but quiet whining noises are rising through his throat and he’s convinced that this is all just a cruel dream meant to toy with his emotions.

“I’m in love with you, Satori,” Wakatoshi repeats, readjusting to get closer. He tilts his head and drags his thumb under Satori’s eye, catching a tear in the process. Looking enlightened by his own words, Wakatoshi shakily exhales and repeats the same words for a third time, much quieter, “I’m in love with you.”

“You’re not,” Satori whispers, quickly swatting Wakatoshi’s hand off his face, “you’re not and you shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, it’s not fair, Wakatoshi. You can’t keep doing this to me, I don’t -- ”

Wakatoshi tries again, gently reaching forward and opening his mouth to say empty words.

“Stop!” Satori smacks it away again, backing farther into the couch and feeling a frustrated sob sneak past his gritted teeth, “Just _stop_! Stop doing this to me, I can’t have you, I know I can’t! You have to stop _lying_!”

“Satori,” Wakatoshi whispers, despite Satori’s continued efforts to stop his lies, “you can.”

“No! I can’t,” Satori closes his eyes, shakes his head and extends both hands outwards toward Wakatoshi, “I’m bad for you, it’s not fair, you said it, you said you only want to make me happy, but you have to _stop_ ,” he turns his head away, voice cracking, “I’m not worth it.”

Eyes still closed, Satori realizes his words are met with silence. Maybe he’s finally woken up? Maybe the nightmare is over and he can calm himself down before he goes to sleep again, though he’ll inevitably have another one. He slowly opens his eyes and turns his head again.

Wakatoshi is still there, staring sadly at him through dripping wet bangs.

“Is that how you feel?” he asks, voice gentle, “Is that how you’ve always felt?”

Satori gulps, sniffling before muttering, “It’s what I _know_.”

“It’s not true,” Wakatoshi says in that bluntly forward voice of his that Satori loves so much but finds so _frustrating_ when he disagrees with.

Satori feels the need to smack him away again, to push him out the front door and avoid all of this, “It is. I’ve always been too much for you. I hold you back all the time and you don’t stop me because you’re too afraid of hurting me but it hurts me _more_ when you keep letting me do this to you, Wakatoshi, it hurts so much,” his voice trails off into a high-pitched cry, “I’m tired of hurting.”

Wakatoshi grabs his hand, weaves their fingers together and squeezes. Satori’s lost the strength to fight back.

“You may not believe me, but that’s how I’ve always felt too.”

Satori narrows his eyes and chokes on a sob. Wakatoshi is the embodiment of perfection, a prime example of the rewards of hard work and focus, how could be _ever_ feel like his existence was a burden on someone like Satori, someone who’s always struggled with maintaining the same amount of discipline?

“That’s impossible, you know I’ve always liked you, you _know_ you’re important to me, you always have been.”

“I feel as though I’ve always put a damper on your livelihood,” Wakatoshi explains, and though his eyes are slightly hidden behind his bangs, Satori can see the guilt that they house, “I’ve always believed that I would never deserve someone like you, someone who finds joy in everything and --”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Satori interrupts. He knows better than anyone else just how much of a pain his disposition can be on himself and others, “I’m too much for you, Wakatoshi. It’s not worth it.”

“You’re right, you are a lot,” Wakatoshi pauses, glances down at their joined hands and squeezes Satori’s again, “but I love that about you. That’s what I want. You’re bright and bold and loud,” he looks back up again, “that’s why I’m in love with you.”

If there were a hard surface in front of him, Satori would be pounding his face directly into it. His head hurts and his heart is confused and overwhelmed. If he pressed back any further against the couch he thinks he might sink straight into it. He’s still not sure if this is all a lie meant to fuck with his huge amount of progress over the past few weeks. He’s not sure of anything anymore and it hurts _so_ much. What hurts the most is that he still feels like he’s fucked up too much too have this man, he’s too imperfect to deserve him, despite how Wakatoshi might feel or how he might perceive those imperfections. He’s just too much, and he can’t let that go.

Silence fills the room and guilt grabs tightly at Satori’s throat. He feels like he might choke.

“I’m sorry,” he finally pushes out, breath catching loudly on another sob. Try as he might he can’t keep his voice steady, “I’m so sorry Wakatoshi, I didn’t mean all those shitty things I said, I’m sorry I yelled at you, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m so sorry -- ”

“I forgive you,” Wakatoshi interrupts, “I already have. And I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I shut you down and closed myself off from you. You didn’t deserve that,” he hesitantly tries to cup Satori’s face again, and this time Satori doesn’t stop him, “I never should have given up on you.”

“I screwed up, Wakatoshi,” hot tears start forming in the corners of Satori’s eyes again and he makes a frustrated noise at himself, “I screwed up and I hurt you and I’ll _never_ forgive myself for that.”

“We both did. We both screwed up, Satori,” Wakatoshi leans closer still, gently shaking Satori’s head in his strong hand, “but I still love you.”

He’s so insistent, and it almost annoys Satori. He’s always been impossible to sway when he’s set his mind to something. It would be aggravating if it weren’t so goddamn charming in a strange way.

“But you said,” Satori rubs at his eyes with his free hand, “you said you didn’t feel that way back when I told you I loved you. You’ve been so weird ever since then, Wakatoshi, I thought I fucked everything up. I thought I _lost_ you.”

“Years ago,” Wakatoshi whispers, “I said that years ago, Satori. But I feel different now. I’m in love with you. What will it take to convince you?”

For a brief second, he considers that maybe this is real. Satori knows his mind is overactive when it comes to hopes and dreams. But Wakatoshi is staring at him like he used to so long ago, with genuine concern and interest in his eyes. It makes Satori’s body feel warm, makes him feel like he’s sitting in a warm bath of security and familiarity.

It also makes him feel like he’s getting too close to a flame that could engulf him in an instant.

What will it take to convince him that Wakatoshi is telling the truth, that he’s here for all the right reasons, that he’s ready to take on Satori, every part of his being, for real this time?

“I don’t know,” Satori manages, voice weak, “I just don’t know, Wakatoshi, I don’t -- ”

It happens so fast that Satori hardly registers it at first. Wakatoshi’s hand is on the nape of his neck, pulling him fast in his direction. Their foreheads press together and Wakatoshi’s warm breath glides across Satori’s lips. His own breath is shaky, his brain is short-circuiting when he realizes just how close they are, just how little space is between their lips.

The rain continues pounding on the window as Wakatoshi nudges closer. His upper lip grazes Satori’s and he backs away again. Satori wishes he had kept going, wishes he hadn’t hesitated just now. Maybe this is what it will take for him to convince Satori; it’s such a small gesture, so little compared to what they’ve done in the past, but in the same way it feels like it could be a promise of something more, something better. So he stays firm, waiting breathlessly for Wakatoshi to make his move.

Warm lips press against Satori’s and he can feel Wakatoshi’s exhale on his skin. There’s a flame that’s been ignited deep inside his body somewhere. He can feel it build at his core and push up through his spine, urging him to let this happen, no matter what sort of doubt could be crossing his mind. Satori’s eyes slowly close and he breathes in deeply, allowing himself to part his lips and reciprocate the kiss. 

Warm palms glide up and down Satori’s thighs for several seconds before they rest at his hips, and the action feels so much softer than what he’s used to. When he realizes his own are sill awkwardly hovering in the air from disbelief, he regains control and presses both along Wakatoshi’s jaw, tugging him closer as he softly whines against his lips.

When Wakatoshi pulls away and breathes hot against Satori’s lips, he wishes he hadn’t stopped. Satori wants to feel him like this forever. He leans forward and kisses Wakatoshi again, but it doesn’t take long for the latter to press against Satori’s chest, pushing him away just enough to whisper against his lips.

“Do you believe me now?”

“Yes,” the words come out quicker than Satori’s brain processes them, like a gut reaction. He kisses Wakatoshi again, softer and quicker, “I believe you.”

And he does. Somehow, he believes him. And allowing himself to believe Wakatoshi makes him feel light again. 

Wakatoshi sighs happily and surges forward, dragging his hands up and down Satori’s back as he aggressively presses against him. Satori’s core is on fire, his body aches for more but he holds himself back, wanting to indulge in this -- kissing the man he’s been in love with for years -- for as long as possible. He drags a hand up Wakatoshi’s jawline, gliding his fingers through damp hair and pushing his bangs away from his forehead. His eyes are still closed but when he opens them he wants to be able to fully see Wakatoshi’s face. Maybe then his brain will finally let go of its last uncertainties. 

Pulling back to catch his breath, Wakatoshi turns his head, presses his lips against Satori’s palm and makes a low groaning sound that vibrates against Satori’s skin, sends a shockwave through his entire body. He almost worries for Wakatoshi; even though he pulls away with the intent of catching his breath, he keeps jumping back in before he’s completed that task. He’s still a big dummy.

“Careful,” Satori mumbles right as Wakatoshi leans forward again, this time leaving open-mouthed kisses along Satori’s jawline and neck, “y’gotta breathe, Wakatoshi.”

Wakatoshi simply grunts recognition that he’s heard him, but is politely declining his reminder. He tugs at Satori’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest even though he’s still sitting on his knees on the floor. When his hands travel down, sliding against Satori’s thighs before resting on his knees and tightening his legs on either side of Wakatoshi’s body, Satori’s breath catches in his throat.

Now he’s _really_ done it. Sometimes Satori wishes Wakatoshi weren’t so ridiculously hot; and who knew he could be so cunning?

Satori lets go of his inhibitions. His hips roll forwards, desperate for friction in the form of Wakatoshi’s body. Clearly the latter has read Satori’s mind, because he takes hold of Satori’s hips and pulls him even closer until he’s holding him in his arms. Satori quietly yelps with surprise, but Wakatoshi has a tight grip on him. One stays locked under Satori’s backside and the other continues dragging along his back, tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt.

Somehow, Wakatoshi’s able to get to his knees and maintain balance all while holding a grown man in his arms. The thought of how built Wakatoshi still is makes Satori’s thighs subconsciously clench tighter around his body. Surely he must have always known he was strong, with them being sexually active for a long time. But somehow this feels like an entirely different person. Maybe it’s because Wakatoshi’s walls are down. Maybe it’s because Satori’s are too.

“Wakatoshi,” Satori mumbles against the man’s lips, disappointed that speaking requires him to stop kissing him, “don’t drop me,” he teases.

“Won’t,” Wakatoshi replies, voice barely audible.

“Hey,” now that they’re catching their breaths, Satori figures this is as good a time as any to set the record straight, unlike all the other times they’ve spent nights together, “just so we’re clear, I want you too,” he rolls his hips against Wakatoshi’s chest for added effect, “I want you really bad, Wakatoshi.”

Wakatoshi lets the words process through that beautiful head of his, Satori can practically see the gears turning and it fills him with the kind of amusement he hasn’t felt for a while.

“And you don’t mean just physically --”

Satori laughs. For the first time in a long time, he genuinely laughs. It fills his lungs with comfortable warmth, fills his body with joy. And when he looks at Wakatoshi, he can see the relief in his face too. It seems like Satori isn’t the only one who’s missed this.

“Right, ya big doof,” Satori whispers just before kissing Wakatoshi again, “I want all of you.”

This time he licks up into Wakatoshi’s mouth, practically begging to see what more he can give him. The hand on Satori’s backside squeezes, fingers digging against the fabric of his joggers. He wishes the article of clothing wasn’t there, but nonetheless he can imagine what it would feel like if it wasn’t. 

Wakatoshi moves, though slowly, towards Satori’s bedroom. Satori doesn’t have to open his eyes to tell that’s where they’re going. Truthfully, Satori’s impressed. He expected Wakatoshi to be much more dense when it comes to things like this. He also vaguely wishes he had cleaned his space, but this hadn’t exactly been in his plans for tonight.

Not that he’s complaining. He’s _definitely_ not complaining.

Wakatoshi lays him down gently on the bed and crawls on top of him, all while refusing to break their kiss. Blindly, Satori reaches for his bedside lamp and flicks it on. He pulls away from Wakatoshi and looks at his face, drinking in the sight of his deep brown eyes and his flushed cheeks. He’s so handsome it almost hurts, but in the best way possible.

Hands press on Satori’s waist again, this time slowly dragging his shirt upwards until his entire chest is exposed. Wakatoshi scoots backwards, pressing his lips against the area just above Satori’s groin. He licks and sucks on the skin there, tasting it as though he’s starving. Even with just this small amount of attention, Satori’s hips threaten to buck up against Wakatoshi’s chin. He fists his hands in the fabric of the pillow behind his head and watches Wakatoshi, groaning softly.

Then Wakatoshi’s hand travels upwards, fingers dragging against his chest and grazing his nipple. Satori shivers and moans, back arching against the touch. Wakatoshi’s breath is hot against his abdomen and suddenly Satori’s pants feel uncomfortably tight. All those times that they’ve fucked, all those countless nights Wakatoshi’s bent him over and had his way with him and never _once_ has Satori felt this much pleasure in his entire life. All they’ve done is kiss and touch but Satori can already feel his cock pulsing and his toes curling.

When Wakatoshi stops, Satori feels disappointment fill his body for a brief moment. Thankfully, Wakatoshi is pressing his chest against his again, kissing him deeply and pausing only long enough to tug Satori’s shirt off. Tossing the article of clothing to the side, Satori puts his hands on either side of Wakatoshi’s face again, breathing in deep, feeling intoxicated by the woody scent of his cologne. Wakatoshi’s hand travels back down, blindly attempting to untie the drawstring of Satori’s joggers. 

Knowing fully that he will bust immediately if he doesn’t calm himself, Satori breaks away from Wakatoshi and shakily inhales. Wakatoshi doesn’t seem to mind; he takes the opportunity to slide back down and gently tug at Satori’s waistband. 

“Can I?” he asks clearly, looking directly into Satori’s eyes and waiting for an answer.

Satori breathily laughs, “Yes,” he smiles and reaches down to run his fingers along Wakatoshi’s jaw, “please, yes.”

Consent out of the way, Wakatoshi pulls at Satori’s joggers, throwing them to the side once they’re fully off. Lime green boxer briefs follow suit, and the cold air hitting Satori’s arousal makes him shiver. Wakatoshi kisses it, gently drags his lips upwards until reaching the tip.

Satori puts his hands over his eyes, pressing them against his face. He’s almost in disbelief that this is happening right now. No, he’s _definitely_ in disbelief. It’s all happening so fast but it feels so _good_ , it feels amazing to have _this_ Wakatoshi, the one he’s always been desperately in love with, the one who doesn’t hold himself back out of fear. And it feels incredible to wholly be himself too, to not be so insecure in the presence of a man who’s always accepted him no matter what.

“Satori,” Wakatoshi quietly says, and he can feel the warmth of his voice on his skin.

Satori’s hands fall to his sides as he looks up, right into Wakatoshi’s face. 

“Wakato -- ” he starts, but the last syllable ends up trailing into a whimper.

Wakatoshi takes Satori into his mouth, gently sucking and slowly pressing his tongue against his skin. It takes all of his strength not to push up farther into Wakatoshi’s mouth, it takes every last bit of his self-control not to cum when one of Wakatoshi’s hands glides back up his chest again and the other squeezes his thigh. 

But he can’t fight it off forever, not when he can see himself pushing against Wakatoshi’s cheek, not when he can hear Wakatoshi’s throat gagging slightly, and especially not when Wakatoshi’s _still_ looking directly at him and blindly reaching for Satori’s hand again, weaving their fingers tightly, perfectly, together.

Satori doesn’t have the energy to audibly warn Wakatoshi, but he quickly reaches with his free hand, tapping Wakatoshi’s chin, gently pushing him back. Thankfully Wakatoshi doesn’t translate the action as Satori suddenly backing out. Maybe that’s because almost immediately Satori’s hips buck upwards. Hot release spills across his chest, so fast and so far that it almost reaches his chin. Satori cries out with every single wave of pleasure, breathily laughing towards the end; has he ever cum this much in his life? He doubts it.

As he comes down from his high, he registers Wakatoshi’s lips pressing against several areas of his thighs before traveling upwards and taking Satori’s tip back into his mouth. Satori’s hips twitch as he whimpers at the feeling of Wakatoshi’s tongue languidly stroking, cleaning up what’s leftover. He feels like he might cum all over again when Wakatoshi licks up the rest of his release, dragging his tongue all across Satori’s chest. At this rate, Satori doesn’t think he’ll have to do any cleanup.

“Jesus, Wakatoshi,” Satori exhales, still trying to recover. He threads his fingers through Wakatoshi’s nearly-dry hair, tugs him back up to lean directly over him, “where’d you learn how to do that?”

It’s meant to be a sarcastic question, but Wakatoshi seriously considers it for several seconds. Of course he does. That fact alone makes Satori weakly laugh again.

“I previously had a partner that --” he starts, but stops when Satori gently presses a finger to his lips.

“It’s okay, I’d love to hear about your previous sexcapades,” and truthfully, for some weird reason, he would, “but I think you should be getting out of those clothes right now.”

“Yes,” Wakatoshi agrees, shifting to his knees and quickly tugging at his sweater, “these jeans are very uncomfortable.”

“I can see that,” Satori purrs, sitting up straighter. He’s thankful that Wakatoshi’s conveniently placed his crotch right in front of his face.

The button and fly of his jeans easily pop open; it’s getting them off that feels like a challenge. They’re still damp and sticking to Wakatoshi’s skin, but with enough fighting and tugging they slip off along with Wakatoshi’s underwear, left to be kicked to the floor when they bunch at his feet. Satori stares appreciatively at Wakatoshi’s cock, feeling a small victory over the fact that he’s already hard. While he’d love to stare at it forever, he instead leans his head back against the headboard, looks up at Wakatoshi’s face hovering above his. 

Wakatoshi doesn’t look away, not even for a second. It’s almost like he’s trying his best to not even blink. Satori dramatically spits into his own hand, wraps it around Wakatoshi and gently tugs. Wakatoshi’s hips move along with the gesture, and Satori notices with satisfaction that he’s now having to grip the headboard in order to stay upright. 

“Mmm,” Satori strokes Wakatoshi’s cock, evenly distributing his own spit, “you’re incredible, Wakatoshi-kun.”

“You -- ” Wakatoshi starts, but only manages a low grown.

“What about me?” Satori breathes against Wakatoshi, close enough to lick him if he wanted to -- and he does want to -- but far enough away that his lips just graze him.

“I love you,” Wakatoshi repeats, and no matter how many times he says it Satori’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it, he’s not sure it will ever lose its powerful effect.

“That’s funny,” Satori finally kisses the tip of Wakatoshi’s cock, earning him yet another low grunt, “‘cause I’m pretty sure I love you too.”

And while he’s maintained a fairly teasing tone for the past few minutes, he says those words as seriously as he possibly can, offering Wakatoshi a genuine smile and a gentle caress of his cheek. 

And then he takes Wakatoshi in his mouth, enthusiastically but slowly sucking and bobbing up and down. He lets him hit the back of his throat, he feels himself gagging and loving every second of it. Wakatoshi is holding firm, gripping the headboard so tight that when he makes any kind of movement it thumps against the wall. That’s a shame; Satori would prefer he didn’t hold back right now.

Satori places both hands on Wakatoshi’s hips, gently encouraging him to push forward, farther into his mouth. Wakatoshi does, and eventually Satori doesn’t have to help him anymore; instead he cups Wakatoshi’s ass, squeezing and digging his fingernails into his soft skin. 

Gradually, Satori’s starting to feel pressure in his groin again. He doesn’t even have to touch himself to know he’s hard, there’s precum dripping against his skin. He’s always had a fast recovery rate but even this is surprising. Satori supposes this is one of the effects of having so much pent-up attraction to a man that’s finally giving himself fully and honestly to him.

Wakatoshi’s chest is starting to heave with the power of his breath and his forehead is now pressed tightly against the headboard. Satori studies him, takes his chances and cups Wakatoshi’s balls, teasing them with his fingertips. Wakatoshi groans louder; the sound vibrates through his body and down to his hips, making him thrust forward, harder, into Satori’s mouth.

Satori gags loudly and his body shivers. His eyes want to roll back into his head, but he keeps them fixed on Wakatoshi’s flushed face. Satori senses that Wakatoshi is getting very close; he’d learned the clues in his body language a long time ago, even though those past experiences pale in comparison to the one he’s having right now.

Though he’d prefer to keep Wakatoshi right where he is, Satori lets Wakatoshi’s cock leave his mouth with a purposefully exaggerated popping sound. A mix of precum and saliva connects Wakatoshi to Satori’s lips, but he quickly licks that up like it’s the most delicious thing he’s had all week. Satori’s hand wraps around Wakatoshi’s cock, gently smacking it against his cheek. 

Wakatoshi’s body is tense, his breath quick and desperate. Satori can’t remember him ever being this way in the past, but it’s incredibly satisfying to see him so weak and needy. He’s warm and pulsing in Satori’s hand, a clear sign that he’s about to reach his breaking point.

“Wakatoshi,” Satori drawls, releasing his tight grip on Wakatoshi but still keeping him in his hand, “are you gonna cum?”

“Yes,” Wakatoshi breathes, and Satori can hear his fingernails digging into the wood of the headboard, probably leaving behind marks that Satori will definitely admire later.

“I want it,” Satori tightens his grip again, quickly stroking and staring directly into Wakatoshi’s eyes, “give it to me, Wakatoshi.”

As if Satori’s words have pressed a very specific button, Wakatoshi gives a low throaty groan that transitions into a moan. Hips jutting forward one more time, his release spills against Satori’s face; he can feel it splatter on his cheeks, can feel it drip down the bridge of his nose and catch on his lips.

“Wakatoshi-kun, you made a mess,” Satori teases, though he’s clearly negating the statement when he licks his lips.

Wakatoshi is trying to catch his breath, but he makes an attempt at a soft laugh, “I apologize.”

“Don’t,” Satori counters, dragging his fingers along his face to catch every bit of cum that he can. He sticks each digit in his mouth individually and licks them clean, “it’s delicious.”

Wakatoshi carefully lowers himself, sitting against Satori’s chest for only a second before getting up again. He makes a weird face and looks down at Satori’s lower half.

“Ah,” he mumbles, and before he can continue, Satori’s laughing up a storm again.

He’d forgotten he was so close to cumming a second time, probably because he was so focused on _Wakatoshi_ cumming instead. 

“See? You tasted so good that you made me bust,” when Wakatoshi leans down to attempt to clean it up like he previously had, Satori grabs his face and turns it back towards him, “nonono! Don’t do that, it’ll just happen again. Do you want me to be stuck in a purgatory of unstoppable boners?”

Wakatoshi’s thick eyebrows knit together and Satori can already tell he’s going to say something unintentionally charming and dumb.

“That sounds impossible,” he pauses, “and gross.”

Satori laughs, soft and quick, “Just kiss me, silly.”

“Shouldn’t you get cleaned -- “

“Nah,” Satori waves his hand in the air, “later. I’ll clean up later, right now I just wanna kiss you forever.”

Even though Wakatoshi looks like he’s going to say something else, probably something along the lines of kissing forever being physically impossible, Satori cups his face and pulls him closer, kissing him deeply. It fills him with a feeling that he’s sure he could liken to floating around in a warm and secure bath of bubbles. Or soaring through the air, surrounded by songbirds and fluffy clouds. Something like that. It’s hard to explain how he feels when he kisses Wakatoshi. Out of all the strange and logically impossible comparisons he could make, a much more possible one comes to mind. 

It feels like home.

**\-----**

A distant car alarm going off wakes Wakatoshi from the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time.

When he opens his eyes, he’s looking at a ceiling that he doesn’t recognize. he’s enveloped in colorfully striped sheets as opposed to his own crisp white ones. He’s completely naked and so is the man next to him.

Wakatoshi turns his body, as gently and carefully as he can, to face Satori’s. His best friend’s head is tucked against the crook of Wakatoshi’s elbow, one arm is slung across Wakatoshi’s chest. He’s basically kicked the sheets off of himself, and Wakatoshi vaguely wonders if he’ll get cold, if he should attempt to cover his body up again.

He opts not to move, afraid he’d wake Satori. Instead he leans down, pressing his nose against Satori’s head, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. 

Despite his efforts to not wake him up, Satori stirs, groaning and tightening his grip on Wakatoshi’s chest. Wakatoshi opens his eyes and runs his fingers through Satori’s hair.

“Good morning,” he mutters, voice groggy.

Satori yawns, breath billowing across Wakatoshi’s arm and leaving goosebumps in its wake. He shifts, rolling around awkwardly until he’s on his chest, head propped up on his hands, elbows making creases in the sheets. He looks at Wakatoshi with sleepy eyes and a wobbly smile.

“Morning,” he replies, reaching forward with one hand to brush Wakatoshi’s bangs out of his face, “I’m glad you didn’t leave this time.”

“I won’t,” Wakatoshi immediately counters, catching Satori’s hand in his, “not anymore. I don’t want to.”

Satori chuckles as Wakatoshi kisses his palm, his fingers, his wrist, “I know, I know. Just teasing.”

The sunlight radiating through the window illuminates Satori’s skin, complimenting his freckled skin and his rosy cheeks, almost setting his messy hair in a beautiful blaze. It’s in this moment, taking in this stunning scene, listening to soft humming that seems to melt perfectly with a single songbird chirping outside, it’s then that Wakatoshi wishes he could wake up to this every morning for as long as possible.

“So what now?” Satori inquires, a lilt in his voice.

Maybe he means it as a genuine question, maybe he’s simply trying to fill the empty silence, or maybe he’s digging at Wakatoshi’s brain, poking around curiously like he used to. Regardless, Wakatoshi suggests something that he knows he should have suggested a very long time ago.

“We should catch up,” he pauses, eyes searching and attempting to read Satori’s beautifully illuminated face, “for real this time.”

Satori smiles, his eyes crinkle up at their corners and he weaves his fingers perfectly between Wakatoshi’s.

“Yeah,” Satori happily sighs, “I’d really like that, Wakatoshi-kun.”

Satori smiles, and when he does, Wakatoshi thinks the sun shines just a little bit brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you thought, I love any and all comments. Also feel free to reach out to me on twitter, I'd be honored if you wanted to talk to me! (esp about tendou, ushiten, or shiratorizawa in general!) ♡
> 
> art twitter: [tendouaf](http://www.twitter.com/tendouaf)  
> twitter: [ushitentxt](http://www.twitter.com/ushitentxt) (I'm most active here)  
> tumblr: [tendou-satori](http://www.tendou-satori.tumblr.com)  
> art blog: [kat-doodles](http://www.kat-doodles.tumblr.com)


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